The Art of Seduction

As most of you are aware, Brett Favre has run into a spot of trouble lately. It seems that the married, father of two, may have attempted to seduce former New York Jets employee / Playboy model Jenn Sterger in 2008 by utilizing his wholesome southern charm and several inappropriate voicemails. On several occasions he attempted to rendezvous with the raven-haired co-ed after practice to prove that he does not waffle on the subject of infidelity.

Favre & Alleged Pen-pal Jenn Sterger

 After several unsuccessful attempts at luring Jenn to an early bird dinner, he decided to kick it up a notch by removing his Wranglers and taking a few photos of “little Brett.” He then allegedly sent those photos as text messages to Miss Sterger who, although she did not respond to them, apparently decided to retain them for posterity. They remained on her computer until this year when the website Deadspin.com paid an undisclosed sum to obtain copies of the photos and voicemails.

While I do not wish argue the validity of Sterger’s claim, this case has highlighted a disturbing trend in modern seduction. The same scenario is occurring all over America and recently resulted in the termination of an employee where I work. The process is as follows:

1.  Identify potential mate.
2. Ask potential mate to dinner.
3. If potential mate display slightest hesitation, show potential mate “the goods.”
4. Regret step 3
5. Repeat

Having been estranged from the dating world for nearly a decade, I fully realize that perhaps the progression of courtship has evolved somewhat and I am simply behind the times. However, I also find it hard to believe that a grainy cell phone pic of a man’s “eggroll” is going to eliminate a woman’s initial trepidation concerning a person’s viability as a partner. What was Mr. Favre’s thought process before sending the first message? Had he convinced himself that Miss Sterger’s hesitation was nothing more than being unconvinced that he was in possession of a penis? What happened to the art of seduction?

If this is the way heterosexual romance is progressing then e-harmony.com will be out of business within the calendar year. Who needs thirty-two levels of emotional compatibility if a woman’s main interest is a poorly-lit “genital line-up?” As Henry Winkler observed on Arrested Development, at close range “it all looks like landscape” anyway.

The other, and far more plausible, scenario is that men are every bit as clueless as we appear. Unable to comprehend rejection based on personality, demeanor, or emotional maturity we decide that the most effective way to convince an attractive woman that we are worth her time is to show her our wiener. I have no idea why women haven’t completely given up on the entire male gender. On behalf of men everywhere, I offer my sincerest apology for the trend of “man-gear messaging.”

Bully

Tyler Long began 2009 as a high school junior in Murray County, Georgia. He shared the concerns of most seventeen year-olds (getting a car, worrying about his appearance, determining whether or not he could justify spending $85 on a yearbook) but he had also spent most of his life fixated on rules. He believed that rules should be respected, revered, and followed at all times by all people. This preoccupation was the result of Asperger's Syndrome, a form of autism, and it compelled him to point out rule violations in himself and others. On several occasions he would lean over to classmate and remind them that they were not supposed to be talking when the teacher was out of the room or that looking on someone else’s paper during a test was prohibited. The words were delivered without relish, but in a matter-of-fact tone that infuriated his classmates. 

Tyler Long

Seeing Tyler as an annoyance and a snitch, some of his fellow students sought to punish his unusual behavior by openly spitting in his food, stealing his possessions from him, and calling him “gay faggot” as he passed them in the hall. Tyler became more and more withdrawn and his parents eventually brought their grievances to the school’s principle who indicated that the administration’s hands were tied. They felt helpless, unable to protect their son from the tormentors who had changed him from an easy-going teenager into a self-loathing outcast. Tyler, however, was not out of options. He removed his leather belt, anchored it to the top shelf in his bedroom closet, and hung himself.

As word spread of Tyler’s suicide, several of his tormentors began adorning their necks with leather belts as a final, macabre mockery of their fallen classmate. School officials declined to observe a moment of silence for Tyler and allowed the students wearing “neck belts” to continue unpunished. Tyler’s parents were infuriated and have filed a lawsuit against the school.

Tyler’s story is heartbreaking, but hardly unique. Already this year, fourteen teenagers have taken their own life as a direct result of bullying and over the past five years there has been an explosion of bullying suicides:

Phoebe Prince (15) – Recently moved to Massachusetts from Ireland with her family. She was verbally and physically harassed for breaking up with her boyfriend. The day of her death, one of her tormentors wrote the word “accomplished” on her Facebook wall.

Phoebe Prince

Sladjana Vidovic (16) – Was mocked for her accent and received phone calls from her classmates telling her to “go back to Croatia.” She hung herself from her bedroom window and was buried in her prom dress. Two of her tormentors openly mocked her appearance during visitation.

Sladjana Vidovic

Jennifer Eyring (16) – Received supplemental tutoring for a learning disability and was partially deaf. She was constantly mocked by fellow students for being “slow.” She swallowed a handful of her mother’s anti-depressants to ease the pain.

Asher Brown (13) – Was bullied by his classmates for being homosexual. They constantly berated him and called him derogatory names. He took his own life with a firearm.

Asher Brown

 Some argue that the media has sensationalized the phenomenon of bullying and teen suicides. After all, bullying has been going on for as long as we have had schools and many of us have been victimized and chosen not to take our own lives.  While I agree that bullying is nothing new, its implications have been exponentially magnified by technology. An insult becomes both public and permanent with a few strokes on a keyboard, resonating throughout cyberspace to wound the recipient again and again. I imagine it was this very knowledge that drove Tyler Clementi to jump off the George Washington Bridge after having a sexual encounter with another male student videotaped and broadcast by his roommate. He knew that his private moment had become public domain and such an action is irreversible. I dare say that most of us, regardless of sexual orientation, would be horrified at the thought of having our most intimate moments secretly recorded and streamed over the Internet to our acquaintances.

So what do we do? Do we make it illegal to bully? Do we prosecute every girl who calls her classmate a “slut” or every guy who yells “faggot” at a homosexual freshman? 

Unfortunately there is no easy solution because as long as there is a populace, it will contain a minority. A faction of individuals who can be differentiated from the majority because of their physical attributes, sexual orientation, religious beliefs, cognitive development, ethnicity, or even personality traits. This dynamic creates the most important two groups in a teenager’s vocabulary “us” and “them.”

Bullies are driven by the insatiable need to remind everyone and more importantly, themselves, that there is a definable boundary between the accepted and the rejected, and that they reside on the favored side of that line. They serve as sadistic tour guides, constantly highlighting and magnifying the unique traits that qualify their peers as outsiders thereby solidifying their status as insiders.  

The only way to eliminate bullying altogether is to create a culture intolerant of its existence. We cannot legislate its demise or outlaw its origins, but we can take steps toward to ensuring that the individuals who choose to bully find themselves in the place they fear most: the extreme minority.

The Misadventures of Frankie

Several years ago, I became acquainted with a young gentleman named Frankie who had fallen on hard times. Due to the widespread economic downturn and a recent DUI conviction, he had been forced to move back in with some relatives in the area to get back on his feet. They had briefly introduced us to Frankie the weekend he moved in, but it would be several weeks until I could fully appreciate the phenomenon we had in our midst.

The first conversation I had with Frankie occurred immediately after the Thanksgiving holiday weekend. I was on my lunch break and making my way out to the mailbox to retrieve the latest onslaught of Pottery Barn catalogues when Frankie materialized next to me in the driveway. We exchanged pleasantries and he asked if I had enjoyed my holiday. Wishing to reciprocate his concern, I responded in kind:

“How was your Thanksgiving, Frankie?”

“Pretty good, I went to Memphis to spend time with my girlfriend.”

“Well, it is important to spend quality time with the people we care about.”

“Well, we would have gotten to spend more time together if her husband hadn’t come home early and ruined it.”

At this point, he proceeded to give me the wink / nudge combo normally reserved for men in each other’s confidences. Unsure whether to feign outrage over the husband thoughtlessly ruining his holiday or pretend I hadn’t heard the comment at all, I decided on the former.

“I certainly hate to hear that. Maybe you will have better luck next year.”

“Yeah, he’s a real jerk. I barely got to see her.”

Frankie then took a long drag of his cigarette as he pondered the injustices visited upon him while I silently shuffled through my mail for a fourth time. After we parted, I made a mental note to warn Ashley that if she saw a suspicious vehicle with Shelby County plates cruising the area to stay inside the house and lock the doors.

Several months later, I encountered Frankie again while I was mowing the front yard. After making small talk about the unseasonable warm weather, the conversation turned to career choices. Frankie told me that his employer had recently forced him to attend “some damn Pentecostal hoedown” because his supervisor was a member of the church and was participating in a contest that rewarded members for the number of guests they brought to the revival.

I considered interrupting him to explain that what he had just described was technically illegal, but Frankie was on a roll so I let it slide. As his narrative continued, he revealed that during the worship service he had witnessed several attendees “jumping around like crack-heads” and that one African American man had tried to get him to dance. He summarized his thoughts on the event by stating that the only thing that bothered him more than “niggers” was Charismatic Christians.

I can only speculate as to the look on my face after this tirade because he quickly asked whether or not I was Pentecostal. I assured him that I was a Methodist and that we were rarely accused of possessing an excess of charisma. This seemed to quell his uneasiness and he concluded our conversation by lamenting the fact that he was late to see his parole officer. I briefly thought about asking Frankie how he felt about diversity training but thought better of it.

Soon afterward, Frankie moved back to Memphis and I had almost forgotten about him until last month when our roof was being repaired. I had come home early from work to discuss a misunderstanding about the gutters and Ashley and I were standing on the sidewalk, watching the workers on the roof and discussing the merits of having “chocolate mocha” tinted downspouts. Suddenly, I felt a presence sidle up to me and I turned to see Frankie in all his glory.

He was dressed in a heavily stained wife-beater undershirt and sporting a rather conspicuous blonde Mohawk. Perceptive to a fault, he commented that it appeared we were having roof work performed. When I concurred with his assessment, he loudly observed that “Mexicans sure work hard” (the majority of the crew was Latino) but that they work even harder if you give them beer. By this time, several of the closest workers had stopped what they doing and were monitoring our conversation.

Convinced that my response to Frankie’s observation could easily determine whether or not my new roof leaked, I responded that Ashley and I had been purchasing Gatorades for the men since it was so hot outside. Frankie considered this for a moment and emphatically shook his head while insisting that “Mexicans don’t like Gatorade, they only like Corona!”

As I quickly scanned the roofers within earshot, I began wondering which would be the first to urinate down my chimney. I loudly insisted that Ashley did not feel comfortable providing alcohol to the work crew and that we were fairly certain that Mexicans did, in fact, drink Gatorade. Visibly crestfallen, Frankie halfheartedly mumbled something about the roof having been finished by now if the Mexicans had been in possession of some longnecks and placed his ever-present cigarette to his lips.

It was at this exact moment that Ashley decided to save herself by announcing that she needed to make an emergency trip to the grocery. As she sped away, Frankie’s demeanor lightened as he announced that today marked the final meeting with his parole officer. Unsure the proper etiquette in such situations, I offered my congratulations and apologized for not having a card.

Before we parted ways, he felt the need to explain his new hairstyle which he had apparently acquired during an evening of heavy inebriation. When I asked why he didn’t just shave the Mohawk to match the rest of his head, he responded that he "didn't want to look stupid." I agreed that this was an admirable goal.

As he walked away, I could not help but wonder how many lives Frankie had yet to touch or sensibilities he had yet to offend. Perhaps he has located his one true love or at the very least a woman whose husband has the common decency to call before he comes home unannounced.

Is Divorce a Career Choice?

Until recently, Virginia’s Radford University was best known for being the alma mater of Glee actress Jayma Mays. Now, thanks to a recently released study conducted by the psychology department, they have become the undisputed leaders of “census-based statistical analysis of marriage dissolution by occupation” academic papers. 

Radford Alum Jayma Mays

The data, resulting from countless hours of student research that I can only assume was punishment for breaking curfew, correlates a person’s chosen profession with the frequency of divorce. The statistics were compiled by utilizing the 2000 Census Data and cross-referencing it with 449 common professions. The conclusion reached was as surprising as it was unnecessarily specific. The findings were as follows:

Highest Divorce Rates

·          Dancers & choreographers (43.05%)

·         Bartenders (38.43%)

·         Massage therapists (38.22%)

·         Gaming cage workers (34.66%)

·         Extruding machine operators (32.74%)

·         Gaming services workers (31.345)

·         Factory workers: Food & tobacco (29.78)

·         Telephone operators (29.30%)

·         Home Health Aides (28.95%)

·         Professional Sports Cheerleaders (28.49%)

·         Hotel Baggage Porters (28.49%)

·         Telemarketers (28. 10%)

·         Waiters/waitresses (27.12%)

·         Roofers (26.85%)

·         Maids & Housekeepers (26.38%)

Like all Americans, I was shocked when it was revealed that professions involving physically attractive people dancing intimately with other physically attractive people who are not their spouses could be detrimental to monogamy. Other professions, such as extruding machine operators, were not as surprising since the only thing less interesting than running an extruding machine is hearing someone talk about running an extruding machine while you are trying to eat dinner.

The inclusion of “hotel baggage porters” seemed surprising at first, but upon later reflection there may be a more direct correlation. Perhaps they get into the unfortunate habit of requesting a tip when their wives ask them to take out the garbage, or maybe it is the irresistible pick-up lines they use on attractive guests:

• You know, those mini-bar pistachios are only $9.50 with my employee discount…
• When I keep the hat on and change into a bathrobe I look like a young Hugh Hefner.
• My friends call me Samsonite because I am rugged, dependable, and easy to maneuver.
• The concierge didn’t tell me there was a modeling convention in town.
• Ring once for luggage and twice for a foot massage.
• Although I am sure you already noticed, this uniform is “athletic cut.”
• If you forgot to bring your boyfriend, I can provide a complimentary substitute.

A glaring flaw of the study is its exclusion of elected officials; former Mickey Mouse Club cast members, and women who said yes to Larry King. I am also curious as to where all of these telephone operators are employed since I cannot remember the last time I spoke to an actual human being when calling a business. 

Perhaps callers are so desperate for personal contact that when they finally navigate the gauntlet of synthesized voices they are afraid to let go of the one human they encounter. It should also be noted that telemarketers had a substantial divorce rate, presumably because someone kept calling and interrupting quality time with their family.

Lowest Divorce Rates

·         Media & communication equipment workers (0.0%)

·         Agricultural engineers (1.78%)

·         Optometrists (4.01%)

·         Transit and railroad police (5.26%)

·         Clergy (5.61%)

·         Directors, religious activities (5.88%)

·         Sales engineers (6.61%)

·         Podiatrists (6.81%)

·         Nuclear engineers (7.29%)

It is telling that the only profession that saw no divorces in the study was the media and communication equipment workers (translation: nerds.) As someone in that profession, I can assure you that we are painfully aware that the number of women willing to spend the rest of their life describing their spouses as “great with a motherboard” is few and far between. Just as telling, I have yet to see a “Hard-drive Hunks” calendar for sale since I doubt there are many ladies who fantasize about being seduced by a socially-awkward sun-deprived World of Warcraft enthusiast over a LED-lit dinner of off-brand Hot Pockets and room temperature Mountain Thunder.

I was, however, encouraged to see that clergy and directors of “religious activities” had a low divorce rate with podiatrists only slightly more likely to dissolve their union. I would have expected lower numbers from nuclear engineers but women love a “bad boy” and next to a podiatrist almost every other profession makes you look like a bad boy (except media and communication equipment workers.)

I am still searching for statistics concerning the divorce rates of statisticians…….